Through cracks between drawn curtains behind the window of Grismer’s basement studio, light glimmered; and when Cleland pulled the bell-wire in the area he could hear the crazy, cracked bell jangling inside. Grismer came. For a second he hesitated behind the iron area gate, then recognizing her visitor opened for him. They shook hands with a pleasant, commonplace word or two of civility, and walked together through the dark, hot passageway into the lighted basement. "It’s devilish hot," said Grismer. "There’s probably a storm brewing over Staten Island." He looked colourless and worn. There was a dew of perspiration on his forehead, which dampened the thick amber-gold hair. He wore only a gauze undershirt, trousers and slippers, under which his supple, graceful figure was apparent. "Grismer," said Cleland uneasily, "this cellar is hell in July. Why won’t you come up to Runner’s Rest for the hot period? You can’t do anything here. You can’t stand it." Grismer fished a siphon out of his ice-box and looked around with a questioning smile. "I’ve some orange juice. Would you like some?" Cleland nodded and walked over to a revolving table on which the wax model of his fountain stood. Grismer presently came up beside him with both glasses, and he took his with an absent nod, but continued to examine the model in silence. "Probably you don’t care for it," suggested Grismer. Cleland said slowly: "You gave me a different idea. I didn’t know you were going to do anything like this." "I’m afraid you are disappointed." "No.... It’s beautiful, Grismer. I hadn’t thought that a figure would be possible, considering the character of the place and the very simple and primitive surroundings. But this is in perfect taste and amazingly in accord with everything." He looked at the slim, naked, sinuous figure—an Indian girl of fifteen drinking out of cupped hands. Wild strawberry vines in full fruit bound her hair, which fell in two clubbed braids to her shoulders. A narrow breadth of faun-skin fell from a wampum girdle to her knees. And, from the thin metal forehead-fillet, the head of a snake reared, displaying every fang. "It’s the Lake-Serpent, isn’t it?—the young Oneida girl of the Iroquois legend?" inquired Cleland. Grismer nodded. "That’s your country," he said. "The Iroquois war-trail passed through your valley and down the river to Charlemont and Old Deerfield. I read up on it. The story of the Lake-Serpent and the Eight Thunders fascinated me. I thought the thing might be done." "You’ve done it. It’s stunning."